


The Thief, the Witch, and the Fae

by bittersweetoranges



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Faeries - Freeform, Gen, HQ Brofest Master Tier, Mage! Ikejiri, Thief! Futakuchi, Witches, futakuchi is a poor sap, other tags to add, there's swearing in here
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-03
Updated: 2017-05-03
Packaged: 2018-10-27 13:03:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10809585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bittersweetoranges/pseuds/bittersweetoranges
Summary: Futakuchi is a thief with an aversion to magic and an unlucky streak heavily connected with his only valuable -- a silver pendant. Falling headfirst into a quest that's way above his pay grade, shouldn't be a surprise, but it is.How shitty must your luck be that you have to steal from a witch?!Just remember, you trust your eyes last.





	The Thief, the Witch, and the Fae

**Author's Note:**

> Thank [Haruhi02](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Haruhi02/pseuds/Haruhi02) for this.

 

 

_Unfortunate._ The word reminds him so achingly of his childhood that he hears it over the snap of thunder in his ears. It takes him a moment to realise his life is flashing before his eyes.

Friendships paid in laughter and starlight. Nights spent learning how to run on rooftops instead of sleeping -- _Hah_ , look where that’s got him.

Pain shoots up his ankle. His shoulder bangs against the rain-slicked shingles. The chain around his neck catches on a stray nail and snaps. His hands flail for something to hold, but his clothes have no grip. 

The rain gutter cuts the tips of his fingers before he realizes that he’s falling.

He feels the pull of the pendant still safe in his scarf. His relieved laughter barely scratches the thick silence of impending death. He catches sight of the sky. Orange and gray whips around him endlessly. The rain falls like jewels alongside him. He closes his eyes and figures that it’s better this way.

Futakuchi remembers the matron with the badly fitting eyeglasses. Her eyes always so comically large as she peered down at them, and her voice such a steady worn out thing. “Unfortunate”, she would say as another adult shuts the door on him. He doubts she said it when he was shuffled out of the orphanage at eighteen, penniless and alone save for the clothes on his back. But if Futakuchi was sure of anything it was that unfortunate was just as common a word as good night -- every bit of a curse as it always was.

“Holy shit--”

His eyes fly open at the foreign voice and the sharp sting of a rope snapping beneath his back greets him. Wood cracks at the force of the fall. He’s murdering clotheslines like arrows do men. Splinters fly and the rope slices the exposed skin of his face. 

“Get out the way!” Someone cries as he crashes into some crates and it’s contents. Mud splatters onto his face, as his back becomes familiar with the brutal squelch of earth.

It takes seconds for Futakuchi to return to the living. In those seconds Futakuchi hears his heart continue beating, and not for the first time he wonders why.

The rain resumes its regularly scheduled hush, time flows once again, and if there were dust the dust would settle.

“Fuck,” Someone’s boots squelch into the mud by his head, “where do you get off falling from the sky?”

He wishes he asked if they wanted to be thrown off a building too, but instead he groans and shifts. A crushing pain spreads from his back towards his neck. His ankle throbs and sends needles puncturing it’s way up his leg.

He tries to lift his head to see over the mud, but all he can see are spots of light and a hulking silhouette -- not much difference.

“At least you’re still alive eh, thief?”

Futakuchi feels their gaze on him, but he’s too hurt to give two shits, too tired to be anything. If they want to hand him over to the authorities, then at least he can lie on some stone instead of mud.

“Lord of pecan pies, Kamasaki,” somebody else pipes up. Nope. Still not giving a shit.

“It wasn’t me! You saw him fall!”

Despite himself, Futakuchi wheezes and he flinches for his trouble. Shouldn’t have laughed.

“Kamasaki, look he’s delirious!”

“He’s a thie--”

“He didn’t steal from us,” Futakuchi can’t see, but he’s assuming there’s some sort of staring down happening, because Kamasaki calls “Nametsu!”

Time stretches out like a tense cat -- getting all long and fuzzy. Futakuchi tunes out of whatever conversation they’re having and stares upward. Rain drops on his face, both soothing and frustrating. Eventually his eyes turn heavy and he doesn’t bother holding on.

 

 

* * *

 

 

A rough calloused palm presses itself on his forehead. Someone checks his pulse and he becomes horribly acquainted with his heart beat once again. Dull throbbing pain crests over him in slow waves.

He opens his eyes, not expecting the soft warm candlelight by his bedside. Pale silver streams in through the open window. Cloth flutters on the sill as the shutters listlessly rattle with the feeble breeze. A pile of… something lazes on the floor beneath.

The hand on his forehead leaves a warm spot behind. They push away his fringe. “Good, you’re awake.”

He doesn’t know if he feels the same that he is. His body is heavy and he’s groggy. He would bet what little of his life savings he has that he won’t be able to tell the difference between one and fuck if someone bothered asking. He’d still lose though. Futakuchi was never good at gambling.

It would be great if he could just not be awake.

He yawns and slowly turns to the speaker -- a woman around his age with warm hay-colored hair. “Hey,” he says. His voice comes out raspy.

Her lips twitch upwards, “hey to you too.” After that silence. Futakuchi is fine with that, at least he gets to appreciate the pointedly soft and not scratchy material of the bed in peace. It’s a shame that even his undershirt and pants are wet, not to mention muddy. It takes away from the many comforts he could be feeling at the moment.

She lets go of his wrists and jots something down on a piece of paper before standing up. “I’m going to go call the healer.” She doesn’t wait for the reply and silently leaves the room. Gently closing the wooden door behind her.

He scowls. No wonder he doesn’t feel as bad as he should be. They have magic. It would have been better if they left him in pain… Futakuchi’s fingers wander towards his neck, and he swears he misses the cold chain that should’ve been there. He reminds himself to breathe.

He waits until he can’t hear her footsteps before he sits himself up. He groans with a herculean effort just to get his back leaning on the headboard. He wipes his sweat on the blanket, and ignores the fresh pinpricks of pain climbing up his leg. 

From his new vantage point he surveys the room. It’s small, the bed he’s on is pushed to the wall. A large closet hugs the wall opposite, crates cover the remaining space and the rest of the wall. The fire-hazard of a candle is sitting on a pile of books inside an open chest. He realizes that the black mass sitting on the window sill is his drying clothes, and his leather armor and boots the abandoned pile underneath. Nothing shiny.

He clicks his tongue before he tries to slowly shimmy his way back beneath the covers. He can’t say for sure, but they definitely took his belt. His weapons and his money are in there, not to mention the bread he had fallen a tall building for. He knows from experience that, with his body half-healed with magic hands and all that shit, he could leave before that Kamasaki jerk could turn on him and report him.

Not that the price to pay for petty thievery is steep, a month in the mines sounds heavenly compared to all the fucked up shit he’s been through. Dealing with the discrimination afterward wouldn’t be anything new to him either. He fingers the hem of the blanket and finds an embroidered pattern of waves. Neat.

No, it’s just that the mines aren’t fun. Stealing is.

The door cracks open again, and Nametsu -- Nametsu right? -- leads a man in. Even in the half-dark, Futakuchi can see the freckles across his cheeks. The man smiles at him and raises a hand in half a greeting, the backpack he’s holding by its strap almost slips. He’s shorter than Futakuchi -- most everyone is shorter than him -- even the unkept birdsnest of hair doesn’t add much to his height. He smiles slow with clear eyes.

“How’re you feeling?” He asks. Nametsu shuts the door behind him and shoos him to the stool by the opened chest and candlelight.

Ah, this must be the healer. “Better thanks to your shady hocus-pocus.”

Nametsu clicks her tongue and dumps some towels and clothes at the foot of his bed. 

The man laughs, a small shattering sound, “Don’t mind, Nametsu.” 

She pouts, not exactly satisfied, but leaves the room anyway. He adjusts his robe, an oversized white sack-like thing with deep pockets, before he sits. He spreads a book across his knees, before looking at him. “It’s not all foul stuff you know.”

Futakuchi huffs. The man laughs at that as well. “My name is Ikejiri,” he takes out some vials from the bag and inspects them with the candlelight. The light bounces off and Futakuchi has to squint to see them clearly. It’s filled with a dried plant.

Ikejiri’s eyes flit up to his for a moment, almost asking him to introduce himself too. When he doesn’t speak, he sees the healer chew the inside of his cheek before continuing “I didn’t study formally, but I have a lot of practice healing.”

“From all the people you’ve hurt?”

The healer scowls, “they hurt themselves, I’m just there for clean up.” 

Futakuchi is pleasantly surprised to hear the bite in Ikejri’s voice.

The one-sided conversation dies naturally and is replaced with silence. The sort of silence that comes when two people are sizing each other up. Futakuchi knows that Ikejiri is aware that he’s observing him. There’s a dagger, hidden in Ikejiri’s boot. Throwing knives hide in the shadow of the billowy sleeves of the healer’s robe. He’s not just a simple healer. He’s hardly a healer even, Ikejiri’s been stuck on the same page of the book ever since he opened it.

“That’s not the herb you’re looking for Ikejiri.” 

The man flinches and shuts the book closed. “Stop being cheeky Futakuchi, you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Don’t I? He’s encountered people like Ikejiri before. Most where beginners or dropped apprentices with half-baked schooling. Spells not learned thoroughly. One of them even went and stole the wallet he stole. Talk about low.

“This is why I don’t like you magic-users.” He furrows his brow, and crosses his arms beneath the sheets. “No respect for privacy.” He balls the collar of his shirt, “using magic on people without their consent”

“First of all, I’m not a mind reader.” He pockets the vial. “Second, would you prefer I let you die?”

Futakuchi huffs at that. What if I did?

“Besides, this is a status check not a healing session.” Ikejiri stuffs the book back in the bag. “I know better than anyone what overhealing can do.” 

He chews the inside of his cheek. “And Lastly, it was those guys down there that told me your name.”

Futakuchi squints at him.

Ikejiri meets his doubt with a vague throwing motion. “It was in that silver pendant. The chain broke when you fell.”

Futakuchi sighs long and deep, use your lungs. He faces the ceiling, panic rising like smoke in a chimney. He swallows the curse he was about to throw. “Where is it.”

Ikejiri scrutinizes him. “With them, they’re replacing the chain.”

Futakuchi presses his thumb to his forehead. “Tell them not to throw the broken chain.”

“I’m not your messenger.”

“Please.”

The healer sighs. The night draws on for a bit longer before Ikejiri places a vial of something on the stool. The door lets in some light when he leaves.

Futakuchi is alone again. He still feels tired beyond all reason, but he stays awake in bed until the morning.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Futakuchi washes his face with the jug of water he didn’t notice was set by the side of the chest. The water is a blessing for the grit and mud from yesterday and for his tired eyes. After that talk he couldn’t find it in himself to sleep again.

His ankle still throbs a bit within it’s bandages. Ikejiri had returned before sunrise to check up on him. The sort-of argument from last night made things pretty muddy. Ikejiri stiffly refused him his magic, saying that he should wait for a few more hours before any more healing that he didn’t ask for -- for both their sakes. He left Futakuchi alone to his devices after that.

Kamasaki jerkface and the soft spoken one didn’t make an appearance. But he did hear their voices from beyond the door. Futakuchi is not stupid, he may be taken care of, but the fact that he can’t find any of his arms or his valuables means he’s at their mercy.

Futakuchi shrugs off his undershirt and tries to wipe himself with the towel Nametsu had left. It doesn’t do much but dirty the once pristine towel, but what can he do? He slips on the shirt also left for him. It’s loose, but the sleeves comes up a bit short. Futakuchi suspects it belongs to the jerkface.

He can’t help but commend him however, the shirt felt light and cool -- and it smelled like thyme.

Left with nothing to do except scream internally until he died, Futakuchi decides to stretch his muscles and check outside the window. It didn’t have much of a view, save for the snapped clothesline now dangling in the breeze and the alleyway with its crumbling cobblestones. If he ducks a bit, Futakuchi could see the sun peek from the adjacent building.

To be fair, most of the pain from yesterday felt like a horrible dream -- like most of his life, he thinks. He pushes the chest as close to the bed as possible to make some space for stretching.

He reaches for the ceiling first. His fingers graze the wood when he rises on his tiptoes. He holds the pose for a few seconds before moving on to neck exercises, then to his shoulders. His stretching goes on for minutes. He tries not to push himself too hard. The low burning in his muscles are a blessing to him.

Around him, people start to rise. The pipes beneath him start to shake from the rush of the water. It’s a weird sensation, he thinks as he sits himself down and spreads his legs in a v in front of him. Having to stretch on flooring that feels like it’s going to come loose just from a little shaking is just something he can't get used to. No matter times he finds himself doing it.

Futakuchi leans forward, keeping his legs in position as he slowly reaches forward. He hears his something in his back pop, and he sighs. He stays that way for what seems like forever, his mind wanders downstairs, where the sounds of their loud chatter almost drowns out the sizzle of a pan on the fire. He tries not to think of other unsavory things, like things that should be kept on his person at all times.

He lets go abruptly and regrets it. He bangs his back on the bed frame with a loud thump, the force pushes the bed askew and knocks something over in the chest. It clinks as it hits the floor of the chest.

The vial! Ikejiri had left him something last night. Pain somewhat forgotten, Futakuchi goes to check if anything spilled… or broke. The vial lazily rolls among the upturned books, miraculously safe and sound. A note is attached to the lip via a thin thread. The note reads drink before breakfast.

Curious, Futakuchi takes the vial out and sits back on the floor. He lifts it up to the light, the milky liquid inside turns gold. 

Huh.

Heavy footsteps creak down the corridor towards his room. The person raps on the door. Futakuchi doesn’t bother standing, answering, or standing to answer the door. He simply hides the vial behind his back.

“Hey, breakfast is downstairs if you want it.” Ah. Of course it’s Kamasaki.  
“Wow,” Futakuchi rolls his eyes, “I didn’t expect this sort of hospitality from you.” He’s pleased to hear Kamasaki’s weight shift.

“Here I was thinking I was going to be behind bars before morning.”

“Don’t thank me you little shit. It’s Moniwa you have to thank.” Futakuchi thinks Kamasaki turns to leave. “Come down so you can eat.” 

The footsteps noisily recede and Futakuchi looks at the vial again. 

_Drink before breakfast._

As much as Futakuchi is loathe to admit it, the healing did do him some good. This may be some supplementary medicine. He grimaces, the faster he heals the faster he’ll be done with all the mumbo jumbo. Futakuchi hesitates only a whole lot when he forces himself to down the whole thing in one go.

Finally done with the mini ordeal he reaches for his boots. His joints pop at the movement. He swats some of the dust from his boots before slipping them on. He tests his weight on his left foot. There’s the faint jolt of pain, yes. Nothing to do but scowl and bear it. 

The hall is as narrow as the room, Futakuchi considers himself lucky that he could walk straight. Stacks of books are pushed to the side, stray pieces of paper litter the wood floor. He has to wonder how could Kamasaki blunder his way through the hall without getting any of the books to fall. It must be a miracle.

Futakuchi finds the stairs at the end. It’s disappointing that none of the rooms were open. There might’ve been something to gawk at. He shrugs and goes down, keeping a hand on the railing and shifting his weight every time his bad leg goes down. It’s slow progress, but this is better than extending his stay -- not that he knows how long he’ll be here.

He arrives at the room below, the gaps in stairs going further down reveal the tops of shelves, but it seems like this floor is where most of the living happens. The windows to his right are thrown open. The sky threatens rain, but the rays of sun still flood in, spotlighting open crates of books and a sofa crowded with even more. He strongly suspects that they’re on top of a bookshop.

“Hey good morning!”

Futakuchi’s attention is called to the group of people occupying around a quarter of a long rectangular table. A counter separates the flood of books from the kitchen, which is surprisingly book free. The person who greeted him is standing up and gesturing him closer. His smile is too bright for the morning. Judging by the voice, this must be the guy who believes in a pecan pie higher being. Moniwa, maybe.

Someone huffs. Futakuchi turns to look at the man seated adjacent the soft spoken one. His arms are crossed on his chest. This must be Kamasaki.

Futakuchi’s lips twist into a sort of smile. How annoying.

“You must be hungry, you can sit here.” Maybe-Moniwa gestures to the chair next to Nametsu, whose nose is buried in a book. She doesn’t acknowledge his presence, and Kamasaki just glares at him.

“Wait.” Futakuchi says, bringing his hand up. “We all know we’re not here to simply play house, Moniwa.”

Moniwa’s face falls, but he doesn’t move to sit down. Nametsu peeks over her book at the two of them, Kamasaki looks pissed.

“My pendant,” Futakuchi balls his fist, “it didn’t have my name on it.” In other words, how the fuck do you know my name?

Moniwa averts his gaze. Futakuchi clicks his tongue, “Where is it?“

“Sit down and eat Futakuchi.” Moniwa says, sitting down and pulling his bowl closer.

“No, give it back.” They can take away his weapons, his livelihood -- fuck if they know! They can’t take his pendant.

Kamasaki opens his mouth to speak, probably to call him a little shit or something, but Moniwa stops him with a look. Futakuchi scoffs, “Not so strong, aren’t we Kamasaki.”  
The man bites down a retort with Moniwa still looking at him.

“Futakuchi, please sit down. I don’t want to give back a protective charm while you’re in this house.”  
Moniwa meets Futakuchi’s gaze. Well shit.

He grudgingly takes the vacant seat nearest him, the one opposite the three of them.  
Moniwa gives him a sad smile and passes him a bowl of soup. “It’s nothing against you.”

Yeah, right. Futakuchi resists the urge to roll his eyes. 

“It’s policy.” He continues. “You still can’t leave anyway, there are guards investigating outside.”  
Futakuchi doesn’t reply. An unseen noose chokes the words in their tracks. Neither Kamsaki nor Nametsu seem to be breathing. Moniwa points to the bread basket set in the middle, almost like an apology. “There’s bread if you want it.”

Fine then, they think he can’t handle himself -- he’ll play along. It’s not like he isn’t a thief.

He takes a roll.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Ikejiri comes around sometime after breakfast. After the tense meal, Futakuchi had retreated to the room to throw his balled up sock at the ceiling. He doesn’t spare the healer a glance when he takes the stool by the bed.

“How’s your leg?” He asks.

Futakuchi catches the sock and peers at his ankle. It’s still in it’s bandage, throbbing a bit from his walking.

He shrugs. “It’s fine.”

Ikejiri sighs. “This is going to be the last healing session then I’m out of your hair.” The healer moves to the end of the bed and starts undoing the bandages. “I’m not going to heal it completely, so don’t go running on rooftops for awhile.”

Futakuchi hums and lets the man do... whatever healing magic needs. If he plays his cards right, he can find his pendant and leave within the day. “Hey Ikejiri”

The man doesn’t look up from his ministrations “What?”

“Where do you work?”

Ikejiri raises an eyebrow and lets the question sit in the air -- not exactly thick enough to sink, but light enough it could almost be forgotten. 

He examines the ankle and absently pulls a sheaf of paper from his bag. Futakuchi is almost convinced that Ikejiri forgot when he answers, “I’m a healer of sorts.”

“Yeah, hur hur. Especially with those throwing knives.” Futakuchi wishes the healer lied better, then maybe he’d get actual pleasure from calling him out. 

Ikejiri sighs and faces his patient.“What is it that you want Futakuchi.”

Futakuchi adjusts his position on the bed, disturbing the papers and the vials neatly spread by his foot. “Let me join,” Ikejiri frowns and chews on the inside of his cheek at his words, “I’m sure that the people in your group will have use for a thief like me.”

Ikejiri mulls over his options. Futakuchi knows the beginnings of a hard-sell when he sees one, but he’ll wait.

After a few seconds, Ikejiri gapes at him like a fish. He opens and closes his mouth a few times before he finally says, “Moniwa isn't going to like this.”

How disappointing.

“Aww, come on don’t you have a better argument for that?”

“Moniwa is the best argument there is, just so you know.”

Futakuchi raises a brow at the lack of hesitation. How on earth could he be the best reason there is? “He’s not my keeper.”

The healer eyes him before shaking his head, “If you want to be in some shady cesspool all your life, fine then.”

Futakuchi is offended, so he shuts up.

“Now, let me heal you.” Ikejiri says, finally beginning this magic thing of his. He doesn’t even wait for Futakuchi to reply.

He’s not looking forward to this. 

The healer lays his hands in the space above his injury, he mutters an incantation -- gibberish to Futakuchi’s ears -- and sparks come to life from his palms. A shiver runs up Futakuchi’s spine. The magic seeps into his skin and bile rises to his throat. He closes his eyes.

The green light vanishes soon enough and Ikejiri wraps up the bandages again. Futakuchi breathes again, he presses his forearm to his eyes.

It’s too late for Futakuchi to wish that Ikejiri didn’t see that. The healer has seen his reaction to magic.

Nothing happens for a while. Ikejiri packs up; Futakuchi tries to piece himself together; and the day is as peaceful as it had been a few minutes ago.

Futakuchi sits himself up and the movement diffuses the tension somewhat. Ikejiri laughs nervously. “Are you sure you want to leave? I often wish that Moniwa found me earlier.” 

“What is he going to do? Nurse me like a wounded bird then give me a better life?”

Ikejiri’s silence speaks volumes. No shit. There goes his plans to steal back his pendant.

“Someone like me s’not suited for this kind of life.” Futakuchi rubs the back of his head. It’s already a mystery to him why Moniwa would help him after he busted some of the crates.

“And what kind of person are you exactly.”

“I’m a thief who enjoys stealing.” Where is the lie?

Ikejiri looks forlornly at him, almost like he wants to ask if he’s lying. “You tell him then.”

“Wasn’t going to ask you to.” But somewhere deep inside, Futakuchi thinks that it isn’t as easy as he thinks it is.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Moniwa looks so sadly at him that he almost wants to take it back.

“Thanks for all your help and all, but I don’t need it.” At least, you don’t want to keep someone so unfortunate around.

“Ikejiri, he told you didn’t he?”

Ikejiri didn’t tell him shit, but Futakuchi finds that he doesn’t reply much when it’s Moniwa.

“At least stay one more night?”

He’s already dressed back in his own clothes. The shirt they had lent him is folded neatly on the bed. Really all that’s left is the stuff that they haven’t returned to him. His pendant for example.

“You are sure of this aren’t you?”

Futakuchi sighs. “Yes I am.” There’s nothing for him here anyway. There’s nothing Moniwa could do for him asides from feeding him.

“And holy shit he’s leaving.” Kamasaki adds unnecessarily. The man laughs as he adjusts his hold on a basket of greens. “The only upside is that I won’t see your ugly mug for more than a day.”

“Kamasaki!”

“Sorry, sorry, I’ll leave you to it then.” He leaves the two of them alone.

“At least allow me to point you towards a friend’s inn?”

“What’s with you? Why are you so worried.”

Moniwa laughs genuinely, a kind laughter that warms Futakuchi. “All your fuss over your pendant and I thought you knew why.”

There reasons are probably wildly different, but he’s not about to tell Moniwa that. Moniwa fishes the locket out of his pocket and holds it out for Futakuchi to take. The chain is still the same.

“You can go and steal your stuff from the room next yours. Consider it practice.”

“Thanks.” More for the pendant than anything. He puts the pendant back on, and the light dims just a little bit. He looks up and a thin figure wearing Moniwa’s clothes stands before him. Elegant silver horns protrude from the nest of black hair. Flowering vines crawl up the horns, bringing with it the sick scent of overripe fruit. Deep burning blue eyes stare at him where Moniwa’s kindly ones once where. The dull grey of the creatures skin catches the light.

No fucking way is he going to steal his things back.

“I don’t think practicing here’s smart.”

The creature laughs. “You know the drill, just leave the way you came, Futakuchi.”

If there's anything his past has taught him, it’s that you take a faerie’s words literally.


End file.
